


Lottery

by wearethewitches



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Challenge Response, Dark Magic, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Marriage Contracts, No Underage Sex, Older Woman/Younger Man, Patriarchy, Rating May Change, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Wizarding Traditions (Harry Potter), antiquated society, torture masquerading as therapy, whitetigerwolf's whisky wedding challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-27 07:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20041909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Narcissa Black has three objectives: raise her son properly, live through the war - and figure out a way to avoid marrying Harry Potter on his fifteenth birthday.It's too bad she'll only get to do two of those things.-In response to Whitetigerwolf's Whisky Wedding Challenge, where Harry Potter has a marriage contract with an older woman, per James Potter's drunken shenanigans. In this case: James and Sirius' drunken shenanigans.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whitetigerwolf's Whisky Wedding Challenge
> 
> Requirements:  
\- Harry must be involved in a marriage contract  
\- James and whomever he made the contract with must be drunk when the contact is drawn up  
\- James and whomever he made the contact with cannot remember and hence cannot tell anyone about the contract  
\- Harry's bride must be someone he doesn't know well, if at all  
\- Harry and his bride must be married by his 15th birthday  
\- Harry and his bride must receive between one years and one month notice of the deadline to marry  
\- If Harry and his bride do not marry, their lives and magic will be forfeited

On November 14th, 1979, Regulus Black dies in an inferi-infested lake. He screams as he drowns, suffocating as bubbles float to the surface of the water. Dead, clammy hands wrap around his robes and wrists, dragging him down, down, down.

At the same moment, the golden matrimonial tattoos that had been painstakingly drawn along the forearms of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy fade. Luckily for their reputations, neither adult are outside the Manor, so no-one sees them shake and cry out in sudden pain.

“What is this?” demands Lucius, who looks to his wife in betrayal. “Narcissa!”

“I don’t know,” Narcissa mutters, worried and fearful. She rubs at the blank skin, rolling up the sleeve of her robe. “I have no contracts to my name, I assure you, Lucius.”

“Are you blaming _me?_” Lucius scoffs, sneering at her. “Malfoy’s do not sully themselves with _arranged marriages._ That was always an English habit.”

Narcissa eyeballs her now not-husband. “I’m sorry to tell you that you _are_ English, darling.”

Lucius grumbles at her, but stays silent, neither knowing what to say. They had been having a peaceful evening, before and now they are both consumed by the state of their non-existent marriage.

“It’s scandalous,” Lucius eventually says. “And…and you are expecting.”

“I know,” Narcissa murmurs, hand dropping to her belly. “People will gossip.”

“We should lay the blame on House Black. You are my wife, legally, if not by magic – you are Wardmistress of Malfoy Manor and inducted fully into my House,” Lucius declares, eyes glittering with anger. “They cannot take you back from me, or our child, if you stay.”

Narcissa hisses. “You want me to abandon my family? This may be _our_ child, but it is as much Black as it is Malfoy.”

“They are not.”

It is the beginning of the end for their romantic relationship. Narcissa Black returns to her ancestral home before Yule, belly curving gently. Lucius is wed again at Beltane, in May, expecting his _heir_ to be born that December. The rumours spread anyway – Narcissa cheated on her husband, they say, Narcissa is having another wizard’s baby.

Young love, once beautiful and gentle, becomes fractured and black.

Narcissa’s aunt, Walburga, croons over her niece’s misfortune. “We have a new heir for House Black,” she says, in a cracking voice that echoes in the empty parlour, “One of pure blood and conceived in marriage, if not born into it. They will be great and they will be _yours_.”

Walburga has one thing right, at least. Narcissa has little Orpheus all to herself, when he’s born.

Number Twelve is dim and dusty. Until her divorce is finalised, Narcissa cannot use her own assets to correct it – and Walburga, in her age, cannot see the difference between now and ten years ago, when she still had two young boys complaining about the damp. It take Lucius meeting Orpheus for the first time in Number Twelve, blanching at the state of the house, for him to release her assets back to her.

Using her returned dowry, Narcissa invests in another set of house-elves to join Kreacher in the kitchen, lively little things that do what they’re told and never complain – she doesn’t even get to insult them, they work so well. Walburga puts Kreacher’s head on the wall early, on seeing the discrepancy, so stark that it is. Then one of the new house-elves discover a secret.

“Is a dark soul, Missy Cissa, trapped in the lockets! O dark, so _dark!_” the house-elf moans, as if in pain. Knowing what she does of dark magicks, Narcissa comes to the conclusion that they _are._

She presses Orpheus into Walburga’s arms, stroking his soft, downy blonde hair. Then, taking the locket, she sequesters herself in the old dungeons beneath Number Twelve, where they used to hold their prisoners and their chattel.

Bellatrix knows the Cruciatus Curse better than her own mind – she knows the arithmancy and the way her wand can twist to change the curse’s strength and direction. She learnt it here, in the cells, with deer and mice. Andromeda never told Narcissa what spell she was taught, not like Bella who preened and whispered the secrets of _Crucio_ into Narcissa’s ears at night. Narcissa changes her mind constantly over what she thinks Andromeda learned.

Wordlessly, without caution or reserve, she aims her wand at the locket of Salazar Slytherin and casts _Fiendfyre._

Orpheus cries when she enters the room. Dark magic like Fiendfyre leaves a trace on your magic, like smoke and burning; Walburga smiles at it, even as Narcissa’s son screams.

“I’ll return in a few days,” she whispers, under the noise.

Narcissa wanders. She visits Lucius that afternoon, whose new wife tilts her chin and cups her rounded stomach while Lucius silently asks Narcissa – his oldest friend, from childhood, from birth, his meant-to-be and his no-longer – why she feels like dark magic and tiredness. Narcissa doesn’t stay long enough to answer.

There aren’t many places she can go. That first night, she visits the family retreat in the Lake District and stays in her old room; but the next morning, the wards edge around her in want and warning. They need a new Wardmistress and Narcissa’s magic is screaming at her to take back the Manor, a hole in her chest. She leaves before dawn.

The next day, she goes to visit friends who will still have her – friends who won’t peer at her under their lashes and ask _what happened to little Orpheus’ father,_ as if Lucius hasn’t taken Orpheus out in public for toys and little witch and wizard groups over the summer. One of those friends turns out to be a bitch in the end, anyway, but interestingly enough, another visitor for tea is a little more defensive of her.

“Don’t you know anything at all about magic?” comes Amelia Bones’ scoff. The pureblood witch rolls her eyes and glances at Narcissa. “Regulus Black was reported missing, recently.”

“I know,” Narcissa replies, like her baby cousin’s death hasn’t brought grief to her family and a new shadow to her aunt’s face, whenever she thinks Narcissa isn’t looking. “Aunt Walburga insists there’s no contract for the Heir to Black, though.”

“Not that she knows of,” Amelia replies with a glint to her eye, like she knows something. It doesn’t take too much convincing to hear the full story.

That evening, Narcissa searches for Sirius.

“What do you want, coz?” he drawls, leaning against the brick wall. It’s chilly, but he doesn’t seem to care, wearing a shirt that shows enough skin that Narcissa averts her eyes and black muggle trousers that are strategically ripped…_everywhere._ “When I got your owl-”

“Regulus died and my marriage to Lucius was dissolved when it happened.”

Sirius stares. His already-pale face goes green and a few moments later, he throws up in a cardboard box by his feet. Narcissa waits, not caring for Sirius’ hurt feelings, but knowing that the truth plain from her mouth would be hard to swallow. When he’s finally still, crouching in front of the box with his head in his hands, she speaks.

“You swore an oath to James Potter that your heirs would marry each other. Amelia Bones confirmed it. You were drunk out of your mind.”

“No- no, it was probably just a joke, we were always joking-”

Narcissa ignores him, continuing on as if he hadn’t spoken.

“We both know that Bella sold her freedom to the Dark Lord-” and that’s what those marks are for, those skulls and snakes that bind the Death Eaters to their Lord, like slaves to their master “-and Andromeda was officially disowned.”

“So was I,” Sirius barks, but his voice is stretched. Narcissa is silent. They both know that with Orion’s death, only Sirius as Lord Black has the authority to disown family members; Walburga could burn as many tapestries as she liked and it wouldn’t make a difference. “You’re my heir,” he eventually says.

“Yes.”

“Until I have an heir, you have to marry Harry Potter.”

“Oh, is that his name,” Narcissa says, not even bothering to veil her contempt. Sirius bristles.

“That’s my godson.”

“My fiancé.”

“He’s just a baby!” Her cousin explodes, standing straight and pacing slightly, stopping to stare at her with wide, angry eyes. It’s not aimed at her, but at himself. This is Sirius’ fault. He swallows, then says: “I’m a homosexual.”

Narcissa recoils. “You _what?_” she hisses, not for homophobic bias or any ideals of her own. “You can’t be! If you don’t have a child, I have to marry an infant younger than my own son!”

“…I’m sorry, Cissy,” he says, before asking, trembling, “You have a son?”

“That’s _none_ of your business,” Narcissa rages, cold and shaking with unchecked anger. She pokes his chest sharply with the end of her wand. “Have a child,” she orders in a hiss, “even if you have to polyjuice into a woman to do it!”

Sirius flinches. “I’m a top, coz.”

“That’s more than enough information than I need to know,” Narcissa says, before stalking away into the alley further, twisting as she walks to apparate home to Grimmauld. She lands on the doorstep and steps inside the house. Once the door is shut, there is a moment of quiet.

Then-

“_Fuck!_”


	2. Chapter 2

She saw his birth announcement in the _Daily Prophet_, of course. Harry James Potter, born July 31st, 1980. A year later, Sirius still hasn’t had a child – but to be frank, Narcissa doesn’t blame him. The War is escalating – fast.

Amelia Bones has taken custody of her niece, Susan, with the deaths of her brother and his wife. She comes over for tea and Walburga doesn’t even mind, mostly because she can’t stand tiny children that aren’t related to her. Susan broke a single china cup with her flailing limbs and Walburga scurried out of their parlour like a rat.

“So many dead – the Order is dwindling,” Amelia tells her while Susan and Orpheus play on the carpet with wooden blocks. Her eyes dart to Narcissa’s bare arms. “You’re- you’re a Black, I know, but I wondered-”

“I’m not a Death Eater, Amelia,” Narcissa states, with an addendum, “But I won’t say I don’t agree with a lot of things they say.”

Neither like talking politics, though Amelia is aware that Narcissa doesn’t approve of the violence – death in an already-small community is the death of that community. Narcissa would rather muggleborns be stolen from their cribs than the current situation.

Grimacing, Amelia inclines her head.

“It can only get worse, unless the Dark lord is miraculously destroyed and the Wizarding World is saved,” says Narcissa, voice liberally dripping in sarcasm.

On the first of November, the defeat of Voldemort at the hands of the Boy-Who-Lived is splashed across all the papers. Walburga screams the house down and Narcissa thinks the old crone is going to die of a heart-attack for exactly two minutes, before she calms down and sets fire to their morning copy of the _Daily Prophet_.

“Heathen! Dirty, blood-traitor babe!” Walburga screeches and maybe, if Narcissa wasn’t engaged to the poor, orphaned celebrity, she might have been amused by her aunt’s ramblings. As it is, Orpheus is crying upstairs in his crib and her mind is filled with images of the Dark Lord, Bellatrix at his back as he comes to kill her baby.

_Why a baby?_ Narcissa thinks, finding it awfully odd. That the Potter’s were in hiding – and it says it clearly in the paper that they are searching for Sirius Black, their Secret Keeper for the Fidelius Charm – is a clue in itself. They knew something, clearly, or were hiding something. Narcissa has heard word of Phoenix Trails across the country – apparation paths meant to safely lead Order of the Phoenix members to safe houses and vaults. Maybe they were the end of one of them.

It still doesn’t explain why the Dark Lord was killed by a _baby_, though.

“My fiancé – Dark Lord Slayer.” Narcissa mutters to herself, brooding over the thought of her cousin on the run; he’d never betray his family like that. Unless proven otherwise, Narcissa will think that Sirius and James were brothers, bound together by choice. He’d never tell their Secret.

Sending a letter to her cousin does nothing. His reply is made from a scrap of newspaper, the words _PETTIGREW IS THE TRAITOR_ scribbled madly over a picture of Bartemius Crouch standing in a courtroom, glorious and resplendent.

Walburga finds her with the paper in hand. “Pettigrew?” she says, nose scrunching in displeasure. “Mousy little man. His son was friends with Sirius.”

“Hmm,” Narcissa nods, wondering if Walburga is holding proof that Sirius Black was not the Potter’s Secret Keeper. In the end, it doesn’t matter, because Walburga thoughtlessly throws the scrap into the fireplace and leaves Narcissa frozen, wondering if her one chance at getting out of an arranged marriage is about to be thrown into Azkaban.

When the news eventually comes that Sirius is indeed being imprisoned for the murder of twelve muggles and Peter Pettigrew, Narcissa – oh so very calmly – abducts a homeless muggle off the streets and imprisons him in the dungeon. The precision work it takes to burn all his flesh off with Fiendfyre, while keeping him alive, is invigorating and the perfect way to channel all her anger.

“Why?” he asks, at the start.

“Because I have to marry a baby and I’m angry.”

“_Why?_” he whispers, in the end. Dark magic flows through her veins like syrup and Narcissa hums, wishing that she could somehow stroke the head of the chimaera made of flames and praise it for its work.

“Because my life is ruined.”

He dies in pain, tired and the lifelessness to his eyes before his death is what makes Narcissa wonder what she’s doing. The Fiendfyre croons at her, wanting to be used – and so, she puts it out, starving it of magic violently and without regret. It’s the first lesson she learnt: restraint.

Walburga doesn’t mind the stench of dark magic, though the house-elves cringe away from her when they do their duties. Knowing her son is safe – _trapped_ – with Amelia Bones, paragon of justice, makes Narcissa inclined to do more. The usage of dark magic is an addictive experience and Narcissa feels like unravelling, purposefully letting go so she can scream at the world for the unfairness of it.

_A child! Why o gods, why have you cursed me so?_ Narcissa destroys artefacts that annoyed her as a child, barely resisting from snapping at Walburga when the woman moans at their loss. The clock that spews knives – gone. The boggart in the upstairs study – burnt to char. Even Walburga faces her wrath, long braid sliced off her very head.

Walburga almost murders Narcissa for that.

But when the week is up, Amelia knocking on the door with Susan on her hip and Orpheus babbling nonsense by her knee, Narcissa doesn’t open the door. Walburga declines Amelia entrance to the house and when Orpheus is brought into the drawing room with his bag of belongings, he sniffles and screws up his face at her approach.

“He doesn’t like it,” Walburga scowls. “But he’s old enough, now. He’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want him to be _fine_ with it, Aunt.” Narcissa says, eyes glued to her son. His childish magic is reacting, sparking along his arms in visible shocks. Orpheus is afraid and he doesn’t even know why. She can see it in the want for her arms that gleams in his eyes, but the hesitance he holds as his instincts scream at him to _run_ – run from the dark witch opposite him. “I need you to take him to Lucius.”

“_Narcissa!_” Walburga hisses, horrified. “He _abandoned_ you!”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“By Merlin, yes it _does_, niece!”

“Orpheus is the innocent party – just don’t tell him that he’s been with the Bones’,” Narcissa orders and Walburga grinds her teeth, but sweeps Orpheus up onto her hip, apparating without further ado. Narcissa reigns in her anger – apparation isn’t suitable for children under two years of age and Orpheus is _not_ two.

_I made a mistake,_ she thinks, taking out her wand. It stinks of the dark, Fiendfyre only one of many dark spells that she has used in the past few days. _I need to be better – for Orpheus. _Narcissa thinks of another, younger boy, hidden somewhere in the British countryside; a boy who she will one day most certainly marry.

With Sirius in Azkaban, there won’t be an alternate Heir to House Black. Even if her cousin died, leaving Narcissa regent until Orpheus was of age, Harry will turn fifteen before he can take up the title of Lord Potter and countersign a Contract Dissolution. Oh, how Narcissa curses the ancient wizarding patriarchy, who thought fifteen was the perfect age for young, teenage boys to marry their betrotheds.

_I need to be better for Orpheus,_ she thinks, making her decision. _And I need to be better for Harry. Even if it means never touching dark magic ever again. I’m going to be his wife, bound together by magic and he will grow up being known as the Boy-Who-Lived; and the Boy-Who-Lived’s wife can’t be a dark witch, unless he wants to be lynched._

Narcissa buries her face in her hands, once more cursing James Potter and Sirius Black.


	3. Chapter 3

On the third anniversary of the Dark Lord’s death, Narcissa asks herself this: _where is he?_

There is no thought as to who _he_ is – Harry Potter should be four years old, by now, old enough to be brought out for at least one press junket with his guardians. There are books lining the children’s section of _Flourish and Blotts _with action-adventures of a little boy with black hair and green eyes, _Sowilo_ a red blemish on his forehead; Narcissa would have mauled the publishers for it using the Black lawyers, had she any idea what adult to speak to on Harry’s behalf.

Orpheus owns a copy of _The Adventures of Harry Potter_, given to him by Lucius’ wife, who thinks that by pretending to be everything-light, they can somehow scrub away the blemish that is Lucius’ _Imperio_ defence. Orpheus likes the book being read to him before bed and every word that Narcissa speaks in her honey-coated voice hides a mass of annoyance and eventually, anger.

“It’s not right,” she hisses to Amelia, whose little Susan has exactly zero copies of the atrocious set of publications. “They’re using his name and his image – why isn’t his guardian doing anything?”

“His record is sealed,” Amelia tells her, tapping her wand on the table to tidy up her spilled tea. “It’s for his own safety – only the Minister for Magic and the Chief Warlock can access it. If it were an emergency, I could most likely get it open, but I’d face backlash unless it were under special circumstances.”

Amelia Bones, as of 1982, is the Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement. She gained the position upon Crouch’s dismissal, but it was interim, up until someone realised she was actually good at her job. Narcissa, stuck doing mail-order potion orders for the ever-grateful St Mungo’s, is only slightly jealous of the variety of activities Amelia is involved in because of it – only _slightly_. The paperwork is hell.

Narcissa should know. Amelia comes home every night to Bones Manor where they live as a family with it all in a magically-expanded briefcase.

“Special circumstances,” she drawls bitterly. “Like terrorism?”

“More like the resurrection of You-Know-Who and even then, it might be difficult,” Amelia replies, only slightly sarcastic. The seriousness of her words belays the humour of them; Narcissa told Amelia about the locket she found in her ancestral home. It’s a conversation they will never forget.

“How am I supposed to explain it to him, when the time comes?” Narcissa asks her friend, who reaches across the table to grasp Narcissa’s hand.

“It’ll be hard.”

“I know.”

“And he’ll be a teenage boy.”

“I’m very aware.”

“But I think you’ll be able to do it, regardless,” Amelia says, so very solemn and grave. Narcissa wants her to smile, for her to make her forget that she has a child groom. Narcissa has not many friends left to call her own, so many breaking off all contact in fear of what the Ministry might do to them, post-war. She barely sees Walburga at all, anymore; they have tea twice a month and Orpheus is never in attendance.

“It would have been so much easier if I’d stayed married to Lucius.” She whispers the words and Amelia’s face shutters, her grip loosening, before Narcissa tightens her own hold. “Do you know, we had a different name for our child picked out? Lucius told me he disapproved of Orpheus later, when we became acquaintances again. I’m still surprised he never used it for his real heir.”

“What was he going to be called?” Amelia asks, saying, “Susan would have been called David, if she was a boy.”

“We only had _Draco_ picked out,” Narcissa says in faint amusement. “A girl wasn’t an option. I would have liked to call her Lyra, though.”

“I see where Orpheus comes from, then.”

“Star names are traditional – but they bucked tradition with me,” Narcissa’s lip turns up. “Greek mythos.”

“Narcissus. Now we know why you like looking at yourself in the mirror so much.” Amelia shrieks, when Narcissa flicks her wand, a silent _rictumsempa _sending unignorable tickles across her body. She squirms on her seat and when she ends the jinx, her face is as red as her hair.

Narcissa raises an eyebrow. “Did you think you were going to get away with that comment?”

“No, but I thought you’d verbally curse me out, not _jinx_ me,” Amelia huffs.

Time passes. Susan and Orpheus join a group of other children their age, learning numbers and letters while Narcissa makes better use of her time and begins designing ward schemes for small businesses. It’s plebeian work, but it keeps her busy and more importantly, enriches her life with something that isn’t a child.

Every night, Amelia comes home to find her surrounded by parchment, the children in bed and their mornings both set to spend time with each other. It’s the only time they have – Amelia can only stall going to work for so long.

“I’m glad you’re here,” the red-head eventually tells her. “Knowing Susan’s being looked after and she isn’t alone with a house-elf is…it’s everything. I trust you.”

Knowing her own feelings about leaving Orpheus with anyone, even Lucius, Narcissa can understand. Amelia might even feel more strongly about her niece, considering her brother and his wife died to leave Susan in her care.

“I’m glad _I _am here,” Narcissa replies warmly, smiling at the other witch. Then, it’s as if a switch has been flipped as she sees her there, standing radiant in their study. Children’s drawings are spelled to the walls behind her head and the portrait of Guba Bones, who Narcissa likes to argue magical theory with, sleeps on the wall beside her.

Narcissa knows this house – and she knows Amelia. At her smile, she knows three things: that it’s genuine, that it’s because of Narcissa and it’s _for_ her, too. The smile sends a flutter through her chest and steals her breath, her eyes widening as her thoughts click into place.

_I adore you._

Amelia steps forwards, stepping oh-so-close, peering over her shoulders to look at the ward scheme she’s designing and Narcissa doesn’t hear what she says, still staring. Amelia looks at her, brown eyes deep and inviting.

“Narcissa? Is something wrong?”

“…no, no, Amelia. Nothing wrong,” Narcissa breathes, edging out of her seat. Then she sees it – how Amelia’s eyes dart down, nothing she hasn’t seen before, but somehow it registers where she’s actually looking. Her lips, her chest – her eyes, staring at her like Narcissa is something out of bounds and not allowed to touch.

“Then- then what is it?”

She gets to her feet, wasting no time as she presses their lips together, bodies more than brushing as Amelia gasps, hands coming to clutch at her robes.

Narcissa leans back when Amelia finally starts to reciprocate, theory proven. Smugness fills her chest unwillingly, because Amelia is dazzled by her, sending her a look she’s only ever seen sent at Susan.

“Amelia,” she sighs, reaching up to brush her hand over her cheek. It’s then that she remembers her betrothal – how this is forbidden and doomed to fail. When she’s bound to Harry Potter, Narcissa won’t be able to touch another like this.

The other witch reaches up, linking their hands. Somehow, she senses Narcissa’s solemn thoughts.

“September first,” she says. “Nineteen ninety-one. I have- I have an imaginary plan, where in a world that we were together, we’d part amicably the day we sent Susan and Orpheus off on the Hogwarts Express.”

Narcissa imagines it. “A painful experience.”

“Worth it,” she utters and Narcissa is lost to that thought. She leans forwards, down, leaning her forehead against Amelia’s. They’re already so close. Amelia tightens her grip on Narcissa’s robes, brushing her arms. “Is this it? One kiss and one embrace?”

“It’s a cruel fate, knowing that the one you care for is destined for another. I can’t commit to you, though one day I might wish to.”

“We live in the same house – we are raising our children together. There’s not much more serious than that, Narcissa.”

Narcissa shrugs minutely, a small smile growing on her face. “I suppose not. Perhaps we should make the best of a bad situation.”

“It’s hardly bad – just inconvenient,” says Amelia, before Narcissa draws them together again and their lips collide.

The world spins on, but to Narcissa, it disappears.


End file.
